The Viper of Milan. Bowen Marjorie

confusion and distress.

      "I cannot give it him," she said, the tears starting. "I entreat thee, sir, ask him to let me go."

      But the page intimated to her warningly she had best make no to-do. There was only one law for the citizens of Milan: that was the tyranny of the Visconti; let the one who encountered it only in the capricious whim of the crazy Tisio be thankful.

      "Hold it good fortune, it is naught but a bauble he demands," said the page. "Give him the bracelet; he will drop it, forgotten, to-morrow. Ask for me one day at the palace. I will restore it. But give it now, before he grows angry. Thou hadst better."

      Tisio's face was darkening.

      "Make haste, make haste," cried the page impatiently, "or it will be thee and thy bracelet both that will be carried off."

      "My betrothed gave it to me," she murmured. "I cannot part with it."

      "I will have it," repeated Tisio imperiously, with outstretched hand. Graziosa's helpless tears were flowing; slowly she unclasped the bracelet; the page took her treasure with an easy air, handed it to his master, and turned the horses' heads toward home.

      "Thou wilt be none the worse," he laughed, as they rode away. Tisio, absorbed in his new toy, gave her neither look nor thought, for jewels, gold ornaments of rare design, were the craze of this Visconti's crazy brain.

      Graziosa pressed her bare arm to her lips, and looked after them, the tears of vexation streaming down. She thought of Ambrogio, the painter-lover, whose gift it was: what would he say to find her bracelet gone?

      "Oh, if only Ambrogio had been here," she cried, "he would not have let the Duke himself take it from me—but I—what could I do?—if only he is not angry that I let it go."

      She had not much faith in the page's words; besides, how dare she venture to the Visconti's palace? Her tears flowed afresh; she picked up the poor discarded lilies, all her pleasure gone. In the distance she could see Tisio, still handling the bracelet with delight, and she half-smiled, even through her tears, at so strange and pitiful a thing. "It makes the poor crazy lord happy," she said softly, "but it breaks my heart to lose it." She watched Tisio disappear; then, her loss a certainty, she turned with reluctant feet upon her errand.

      Meanwhile Tisio, absorbed in his new spoil, rode toward the palace.

      The projecting gables of the houses sent clear-cut shadows across his path; the strong noonday sun blended the city into brilliant light and shade, broken only by the vivid color of the drapery fluttering at some unshaded window, or the sudden flash of pigeon's wings against the golden air.

      As they neared the great gate of the palace, a group of horsemen, galloping noisily ahead of them, dashed into the vast courtyard and drew rein with a fine clatter at the entrance steps.

      Tisio, following, raised his head, and looked dully at them—a band of his brother's soldiers, hired mercenaries; it was usual enough to meet them both within and without the Visconti's abode. As he was dismounting, the leader of the band addressed him familiarly.

      "My lord hears thee not, sir," said the page, "his thoughts are with his spoils."

      The soldier laughed with a grimace.

      It was the freedom of one whose services are valuable enough, even when well paid, to permit him to bear himself with small respect to his employers. For the mercenaries were a power; the transfer of their services could ruin states and lose towns, and even Visconti had to pay them well and concede license to their leaders; for upon them, to a great extent, his sovereignty rested, and Alberic da Salluzzo could take more liberties than any. He was a famous captain, noted for his skill in wars and turbulence in peace, a man with no country and no honor, endowed with dauntless courage and endurance, of vast rapacity and of all the cruelty his age allowed.

      Making no way for Tisio, and motioning curtly to his men, he strode up the stairs, a stalwart figure, overdressed in splendid armor, and swung into the antechamber of the Visconti's audience-room. It was deserted. Alberic, astonished, paused on the threshold, looking around in amazement for the crowd—courtiers, servants, seekers, soldiers—wont to fill it.

      Opposite was the closed door of the Visconti's room, but even Alberic dare not knock there unannounced. He was turning away to seek enlightenment, when a dark form he had passed unnoticed in the distant shadows of the great room rose, and he recognized, as it advanced, the secretary's stooping figure.

      "What has happened here?" demanded the soldier.

      "Is there need to ask?" answered Giannotto. "The Duke has had the room cleared. He will see no one." Alberic half-laughed, and shrugged his shoulders.

      "The madness is on him at Count von Schulembourg's escape. Is that it?" he asked. "But art even thou excluded?" he continued in surprise, for Giannotto was the one man who could come and go unannounced, unbidden, the one man who knew Visconti's secrets.

      The secretary smiled, the slow smile that men's lips learned in the Visconti palace.

      "It is best for the Duke to be alone, and for me that he should be," he said. "The news that Count Conrad has escaped hath galled him much; it came at a bad moment too, following on those parchments twice found within the grounds"—he paused. "Thou wert sent to find the writer, or the one who put them there; art thou successful?"

      Alberic shook his head. "I return as I went. Beyond finding that doorway forced in the wall, messer secretary, there is no token whatsoever of how the Count escaped. But after so long a fast, messer," Alberic showed his teeth, "it is not likely that it was alone."

      "The one who aided him is he who inscribed those parchments?"

      "'Twould seem so," answered Alberic. "We have searched anew among the huts from which we drove Count Conrad's German dogs; on the threshold of the largest there was—this."

      He drew out of his breast a parchment, a long narrow strip, scrawled across in irregular writing, and handed it to Giannotto.

      "What does it say?" he asked.

      Giannotto glanced at it hastily, his eyes on the Duke's door.

      He read, "Della Scala lives!"

      The captain whistled softly. "Now, thou may'st hand that to the Duke instead of me," he said.

      Giannotto searched the writing keenly. "Della Scala cannot live; 'tis some trick of the Torriani."

      Alberic laughed harshly. "Whate'er it be, I say thou shalt have the pleasure of showing it the Duke!"

      "Nay, thou must speak of thy own failures, friend. Besides, the Duke will need thee for his further orders. Count Conrad must be found, alive or dead!"

      "Was it his ghost attacked the walls last night?" asked Alberic; and not wholly did he speak in jest.

      The secretary cast uneasy looks across his shoulder at the ominously shut door.

      "It angered Visconti strangely," he whispered. "But it was a handful of madmen. Wandering robbers from the hills! They were four at most, and they tried to scale the walls of Milan!" He smiled in scorn.

      "And yet," said Alberic, "they were almost on the ramparts ere they were discovered, and when they were pursued, fled back into the night silently, nor could we find from whence they came, nor any trace of them."

      "However that may be," said Giannotto, "the Duke hath dismissed even me, and the delivery of this parchment had best wait till his black fit has left him."

      He raised the arras from the entrance that opened on the stairway, and passed out of sight along the corridor, leaving Alberic standing in the unguarded entrance of the deserted audience-room, undecided, the parchment in his hand.

      But he did not stand there long alone. One or two servants stole back to their places, afraid to stay away; and presently, with slow steps and vacant smile, there passed by him Tisio Visconti, followed by the page who never left him.

      "Thou,